


It's Not A Game To Me

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Drabble Challenge [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Graphic Depictions of Sexual Activity, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, NSFW, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic





	1. Marko

Sherlock is searching the tiny office for clues. He is definitely not being distracted by the moonlight bathing John’s face. That would be absurd. He is absolutely not counting each little eyelash as John blinks. Although if he was, the moonlight would definitely be helping.

“…looking for?”

Sherlock shakes his head to clear it.

“What?”

John looks at the detective with fond exasperation.

“You never listen to what I’m saying, you git. I was asking if you cared to tell me what exactly it is we’re looking for. It might speed things along if two of us were looking. Not that I mind ogling you as you flit around twirling your Belstaff and flexing that arse.”

Sherlock snorts and turns away to hide the blush stealing across his cheeks. Honestly! He and John have had their parts inside each other’s parts. How can he still be so affected by the mere suggestion that John finds him attractive? It’s hatefully illogical.

“Good thing you’re an arse man then, Watson. He hasn't got much tit to work with.”

* * *

 

John freezes and his shoulders snap back at the low offensive growl. Clearly, they are not alone in the building. He knows the voice is coming from behind him, so he looks to Sherlock to assess the situation. The expression he can see flitting behind the detective’s eyes makes his blood run cold. Sherlock is scared. No, frankly, he is terrified. John can see the minute tremors running through Sherlock’s hands. He shoots the detective a tight-lipped, crooked smile and tries to convey calm and reassurance.

Sensing that his efforts are not having the desired effect, he turns his mind toward deducing what he can about the interloper. His scent is quite pungent. He clearly hasn’t showered for days. Clearly homeless or on the run then. Given Sherlock’s fear, John gives more probability to on-the-run. He really is getting better at this, thanks to Sherlock’s unflagging insistence that John develop his meager deduction capabilities.

“So glad to see you again, Mr. Holmes. It’s been too long.”

John cocks an eyebrow at the unexpectedly familiar greeting, but Sherlock gives no indication that he’s noticed. Something about the man’s voice seems off to John. It is dark and threatening, like most criminals they encounter, but there’s something else. Something not quite…British? That’s it! There’s a harsh, guttural quality to the consonants that speaks to a foreign mother tongue. As John concentrates, he weighs the possibility of several languages before coming to land squarely on a Slavic origin. He doesn’t have the first-hand knowledge to be any more specific than that.

Seeing that Sherlock has still not moved or acknowledged the stranger in any way, John turns to confront him. He is stopped immediately by a cold, metallic click he knows all too well. The man has cocked a gun and John has no way of knowing toward whom it is aimed. He looks beseechingly at Sherlock, silently begging him to snap out of it and help.

* * *

 

The cocking of the gun explodes through Sherlock’s consciousness like a clap of thunder, shocking him back to the present moment, back to the office building, back to John. Oh God, John! Precious John Watson who is horribly exposed with his back to the armed man. John who is looking at Sherlock like he has all the answers in the world if he would only deem to share them. Sherlock gives a subtle twitch of his lip that he knows John will not miss to indicate his solidarity. He knows John will see and understand that Sherlock is formulating a plan. He watches as relief slides over the blogger’s face and his body falls into parade rest, awaiting orders.

Sherlock focuses on the man and takes in all the small nuances and subtle changes that have occurred in the past three years. Most shocking, of course, being the beating heart and pumping lungs. This man should not be here. He should not be capable because he is dead. Dead and buried in an unmarked grave in the Serbian wilderness outside a compound that Sherlock struggles not to remember every time he closes his eyes. Mycroft’s men had seen to that.

Impossible though it should be, Sherlock cannot deny the evidence of his own two eyes. The man is here; therefore, he must be alive. He does not believe in ghosts.

Minutes have passed since the greeting and Sherlock can see the man’s displeasure at being kept waiting. He tilts his head and lets amusement flash through his eyes for a moment as he replies.

“Marko.”

His greeting is terse and cold. No sense in pretending the man is in any way welcome. They know each other far too intimately for any sort of deception now. Marko knows all the ways Sherlock’s body shudders and writhes. He knows the precise pitch and timber of his screams. He knows the slump of his shoulders as he admits defeat. Fury and disgust will be Sherlock’s most useful weapons. He feels them closing around him like armor. Swathing him in protection so formidable it might as well be pure steel.

Despite the security, Sherlock feels a red-hot pain slice along his spine and he grimaces. _Fuck you, Marko,_  he thinks. He and John have worked unbelievably hard over the last few years to make the PTSD livable. It had been months before he could go to crime scenes with torture victims, and it had been years before he could wake himself out of the nightmares without immediately lunging for John’s jugular. All that work is being undone by one man who dared to utter four short sentences.

Sherlock flicks his gaze to John, who has not missed his reaction. Sherlock watches as his eyes go wide with realization and his hands ball into fists so tight, he must be drawing blood.

“What the hell do you want?”

John spits out. He is clearly unwilling to play whatever game this is. Sherlock panics. He knows how Marko will likely respond to this disrespect. He walks forward leisurely and waves John off in what he hopes looks like a flippant gesture.

“It’s fine, John. Marko and I go way back. Don’t we?”

He feels his chest loosen as his steps take him past John, blocking the path of the gun. Marko will have to shoot him first.

“I’m pleased you remember. I did so try to make it _unforgettable_.”

“Well as far as these things go, etching the memories into one’s skin is undoubtedly effective.”

Sherlock is proud that his voice does not waver. He can feel John practically vibrating with fury behind him, and he prays that he has not exhausted John’s restraint. He needs him to stay there and do exactly as Marko says. If he does, he will not draw attention and become a target.

Marko smirks in smug satisfaction.

“I bet they’re just lovely now. Give us a look, then.”

It is not a request. There is nothing Sherlock wants less than to strip down and show his scars to the man who put them there, but there is no limit to the lengths he will go to keep John safe. There is no other option. His fingers struggle to undo the buttons of his shirt.

_When did he start shaking?_

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice is a wonderful mix of anxiety and fury. Sherlock can hear the war for control through the utterance of only his name.

“Don’t.”

He snaps shortly. He is just a few breaths away from an all-out panic attack, and he does not have the additional capacity to argue. John must sense his desperation because he shuts up.

Sherlock finally manages to get the hateful shirt undone and maneuvers it carefully off his shoulders. He watches it flutter delicately to the ground. Marko sucks in a sharp breath, and Sherlock can feel the shudders racing through his body now. No matter. He can hardly control it. He stares intently at the back of John’s head, taking comfort in his healthy, unbroken silhouette.

“Magnificent.”

Marko breathes so softly it is almost a whisper. Sherlock’s stomach roils at the twisted admiration. John is the only one allowed to sound like that, and he has never been enthralled by the story of pain mapped by the scars. John is forever in awe of the strength and resiliency and courage of his detective, or so he has told Sherlock. The detective is so caught up in his own panic and disgust that he is utterly unprepared for the harsh grip of cold fingers against sensitive skin.

Sherlock loses his battle for control and all logical thought flies out of his mind as his animal instincts take over. The only thing that matters is getting away. Fight or run, he has to get those fingers off of him _now_. He bends his knees and twists to grab Marko’s arm, yanking it firmly out of the socket with the gravity of his spin.

The man howls and begins shooting immediately.

“You worthless swine! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Despite the success of his initial spin, Sherlock can see the edges of his vision blurring. He is not getting enough oxygen. He can feel the iron vines creeping over his lungs. He can feel the weight pressing in and he has the strange feeling there is some other, more pressing danger he should care about. But he doesn’t. All he can think about is the slow, painful squeeze of suffocation. Not the way, he would have chosen to go, but there are worse ways.

* * *

 

At the sound of gunshots, John whirls in place. The time for inaction is over. He has less than a second to take in Sherlock’s terror and panic before the detective’s body spasms and drops to his knees. John bellows and throws the detective bodily behind the desk. He launches himself and wraps his body over Sherlock’s protectively, hoping that his weight won’t frighten the man even more. He recognized that look. He knows what that panic attack must feel like, and he is fairly sure that Sherlock is not cognizant of what is happening in this building any longer.

John reflexively reaches for his gun and slips it silently out of his waistband. He crouches and waits for a telling cessation of gunfire. Then his muscles coil as he propels himself around the corner of the desk and fires. The bullet sails unwaveringly across the room and strikes Marko between the eyes. John is not taking any chances. As soon as he is certain the man is dead, he crawls frantically back to Sherlock.

He stops several feel in front of him and doesn’t move to touch. After the last few years, he is practically an expert in these situations. His hand shakes with fear as he remembers the sound of the gun and the acrid smell of the powder as he watched Sherlock’s body spasm and drop. _Please Sherlock. Don’t be shot. Please, please just don’t be shot._

“Sherlock.”

In spite of the frantic mantra echoing through his head, John manages to speak low and soothingly. He calls the detective over and over again. Not stopping until one eye squints open and fixes him with a wary glare.

“That’s it, love. It’s just me. Just John. You’re having a panic attack.”

John always feels stupid saying this but Sherlock insisted, arguing that provable data is most useful to him when he is like this.

“I need you to breathe deeper. Ok? I know it feels impossible, but I need you to try.”

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes are now open, and he knows that John is really here. That knowledge does nothing to ease the metal leviathan attempting to strangle his chest. He lets the fear shine openly from his eyes, pleads with John to help him. For gods sake, help him. Isn’t he a doctor? Can’t he see that Sherlock is suffocating?

“You’re doing fine, Sherlock. I can help. Will you let me help?”

Sherlock nods desperately, unable to force enough air out of his lungs to respond. Just that slight motion sends black spots dancing across his vision.

“Ok. I’m, going to take your hand and place it on my chest.”

Sherlock doesn’t have the resources to respond but this is not the first time they have done this. He trusts John to see and understand. He feels the warm grip of John’s hand like a sense memory. Like it is happening to someone else or in a different time. He curls his fingers into the soft fabric of John’s jumper. It is achingly familiar and helps to anchor him.

“I’m going to guide you, alright? Just feel the rise and fall of my chest. I’ll tell you when to exhale. You can do this Sherlock.”

The certainty in John’s voice helps. Sherlock feels the tightening weight falter, and he presses harder against John’s chest, sensing an opening. He lets John’s voice wash over him and fights to inhale, hold it, and exhale at John’s command. Sherlock has no idea how long they stay on that concrete floor, but when he resurfaces, he sputters with gratitude that John is still here.

“John.”

He gasps.

“There you are, love. Take it easy. It’s alright. Everything is fine.”

Sherlock searches John’s body with his eyes, looking for any signs of injury. He curses the weakness of his transport. How could it have done that? He fell to pieces and left John at the mercy of a madman! Sherlock unfurls from the fetal position and rolls onto his back to stare sullenly at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you hurt anywhere? He didn’t shoot you did – wait what?”

Sherlock huffs.

“I’m sorry, John. I lost control and put you in danger. It’s unforgivable.”

Sherlock can feel John’s eyes boring into the side of his face, but he cannot bring himself to look.

“You utter twat. Look at me right now.”

Sherlock is turning to John before he can even process the thought. John’s eyes are soft and a little hurt.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. We’ve talked about this, yeah? We’re a team. When one of us is down, the other picks up the slack. I’d expect you to do the same for me. I know you would, alright?”

Sherlock can feel the relief and the adrenaline crashing around him, and his body has withstood too much. He is shaking again, and he can’t stop the stream of hot, humiliating tears that fall from his lashes. John closes the distance between them and lifts Sherlock’s head to rest it on his lap.

“Oh, love. I know. It’s ok. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

Sherlock reaches for John and clasps his fingers tightly around the fourth finger of his left hand.

“Stay.”

It’s the only thought that makes sense in his brain right now. The single desire overriding all others. John cannot be allowed to leave. Sherlock cannot exist without John. John has to stay.

“Forever, love. I’m staying forever,”

John replies as he lets his husband twist the platinum band around and around and around. 


	2. Polo

After Lestrade arrives and New Scotland Yard secures the scene, after the oxygen tank and Sherlock’s return to normal breathing, after Mycroft and endless piles of paperwork, John is finally shepherding one lanky detective into a cab. Sherlock leans heavily against John and noses at the warm, soft crook of his neck. The comforting trace of shaving cream, detergent, and home settles him, and he feels much more himself by the time they are climbing the stairs up to 221.

John takes the lead on nights like these. He cages Sherlock with his body and presses him into the mattress. He murmurs reassurances and kisses everywhere. His touches are soft, nearing reverential, and he takes his time peeling Sherlock layer-by-layer until he is left with the raw, vulnerable core of Sherlock’s entire being.  

Tonight, something is different. Sherlock can tell from the moment they enter the flat. John looks small, deflated. He catches Sherlock looking and smiles. His smile is all wrong. It wobbles weakly and does not reach his eyes. John presses against Sherlock and cups his face in his hands. He basks for several moments in Sherlock’s gentle, steady breathing. Then, he leans forward, closing the short distance between them, to press their lips together. Sherlock melts into the sensation as John emits a choked gasp. Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he turns to pin his man against the wall.

“John,” he breathes.

Sherlock kisses him hard, presses close. One hand grasps John’s skull while the other clutches at his hip, tethering their bodies together. John's tongue strokes along Sherlock's wrist, measuring the strong, steady, erratic pulse. John needs this. needs him, and Sherlock will not leave him wanting. Sherlock rolls his hips slowly and presses their chests together, which makes kissing almost impossible. He trails his mouth along John’s jaw and nips sharply. John’s breath whooshes out shakily.

“I thought you were dead.”

The admission shatters John’s composure, and he practically vibrates underneath Sherlock. Sherlock strokes his hand down John’s neck, across his shoulder, and along his arm. He twines their fingers together.

“I couldn’t leave you, John.”

Sherlock lets their rings clack together loudly in the empty room.

“I promised.”

He squeezes John’s hand as he plunders his mouth. He pants hot and wet as their tongues dance. He can feel a desperation building inside of him. An instinctive need to take and claim and own. He wants to pin John beneath him and take him apart. He wants to feel the slick slide of his cock in John’s mouth. He wants to shatter apart and watch as his come trickles down John’s throat. He wants to pull out and paint John’s face. He wants to lick every last drop. He wants to thrust into John’s stretched, twitching hole. He wants to swallow every last moan and fill John’s arse. He wants to plug it afterward so that he can continue to be inside of John long after his cock has gone soft. He wants to watch his come decorate John’s body. He wants to hold John close, letting the drying come seal them together by their knotted, tangled chest hair. 

Sherlock has a feeling this might all be considered  _not quite good_ , but that thought disappears as John rocks back against him.

“I’m yours, Sherlock, always. Staying right here. Now, love, I need you to – oomf!”

John’s desperation sears along Sherlock’s spine and shudders low, pulsing through his balls. John’s back slams against the wall as Sherlock thrusts ferociously. He insinuates a muscular thigh between John’s legs and presses mercilessly. John whimpers and wraps his arms around the detective, pulling him closer. Sherlock bites at John’s ear as he pulls his jumper over his head. John’s head falls back with a loud clunk, leaving a broad swath of neck for Sherlock to attack. Sherlock sucks his way along the offered skin, preening at the lines of livid bruises he is leaving. He growls and licks the sweat pooling in the dip of John’s collarbone. The taste resonates inside him and his hips roll with pleasure. He captures John’s moan with his lips as his fingers pinch and tease his sensitive nipples. The small, compact body beneath him bows at the sensation and arches against him, bending the very laws of physics as John fuses himself tighter to Sherlock. Sherlock noses at the bruises along John’s neck, making John shiver as he descends to stretch his mouth over John’s reddened chest. He swirls his tongue over the peaked nubs and sucks. John’s moans become high-pitched whines as Sherlock scrapes his teeth over each nipple.

Crashing half-naked against the sitting room wall is swiftly turning Sherlock’s brain into a useless pile of need. He slides his hands along John’s thighs and, without warning, lifts him. John squeals, though he’d never admit it, and wraps his legs tightly around Sherlock’s waist.

“Oi! Put me down. I can manage on my own, Sherlock! Just because I’m shorter than you doesn’t mean I need…!”

Sherlock balances John’s weight between his body and the wall as he leans in close and licks the shell of John’s ear. His whisper is throaty and deep. He can barely articulate the multitude of ways in which he is turned on right now.

“But, John. _I_ need to. I need you as close to me as possible as quick as possible for as long as possible.”

John shivers, and Sherlock hurries to carry John into their bedroom. He kicks open the door and flops belly-first onto the bed, pinning John beneath him. Their breath whooshes out in a collective burst, and John is giggling. Sherlock swallows each giggle greedily as his hands work frantically at John’s fly.

He slides the well-worn jeans from John’s hips and breaths in the rich, earthy scent of _JOHN._ His cock pulses and the constriction of his dress trousers is actually painful, but he doesn’t move to free himself. His entire being is singularly focused, his blood shouts through his veins, a constant thrumming of John-John-John.

Sherlock nips at John’s collarbone and grinds his hips unmistakably. John’s hands cup Sherlock’s arse, encouraging the motion, but Sherlock has other plans. He wrenches John’s hands up and away. He pins them to the pillow, and stares hungrily at John. The soldier submits willingly to the blatant display, and his breathing is harsh and loud.

“You will not move these hands again, or I will stop.”

Sherlock’s command is laced with a dark promise that sparks through John’s body, filling him with excitement and arousal.

“Do you understand?”

Sherlock asks slowly, enunciating each word, as if John should have anticipated the question before he had to actually voice it.

“Yes. I understand.”

John would do just about anything to get Sherlock to touch him again. After the hard, fast, possessive beginning in the sitting room, this interminable waiting is driving John insane. He needs Sherlock’s skin against his. He isn’t even too picky about which part.

Luckily, Sherlock must be feeling merciful tonight, or he just can’t help himself either. After a few seconds of gratuitous staring, Sherlock dives back into John’s body with enthusiasm. His pants are quickly removed, and Sherlock licks circles around the head of John’s cock. A high string of breathy moans spurs Sherlock on as he swipes his tongue in a broad line down the length of him. He teases along John’s swollen testicles.

His hands are splayed over John’s arse as his fingers tease lightly along the cleft, not quite reaching where John so desperately wants them. This desire had shocked John the first time. Usually it was the other way around. Sherlock loves to feel John inside of him, and John loves making Sherlock happy. But, ever the insatiable detective, Sherlock had been curious about penetrating John, who had acquiesced without high hopes.

He had never been more wrong in his life. He tilts his hips and tries to force himself backward onto Sherlock’s fingers. The genius recognizes his attempts immediately and grabs his hips hard enough to bruise.

“None of that. Stop it now.”

John whines pathetically but stills his hips and waits for Sherlock. The man gazes down at him like a predator, but he can see the gentleness underlying the hunger.

“I will always take care of you, John.”

The sweetness of the moment is suspended in the air long after they have returned to their frantic _need-need-want-now_ pace. Sherlock is alternating kitten licks and soft suction along John’s cock as he circles one finger lightly around John’s hole. He knows first-hand that what John wants more than anything is more pressure, but Sherlock wants John. He wants to break him apart and own each and every piece. Then piece him back together until John is a sum of all Sherlock’s parts. He wants to be absorbed through the pores of his skin, and he wants their bond to unmistakable. A fundamental fact. Like biology. Like breathing.

Finally, Sherlock takes the soldier’s cock into his throat and thrusts his finger into John. John’s body quivers and hovers mid-air for a moment as the sensory overload sweeps over him. His hips try to rock forward and backward simultaneously, leading them to freeze entirely as each desire counteracts the other.

A broken “Sh-sh-Sherlock!” is ripped from John’s chest, and Sherlock hums around the flesh in his mouth. The vibrations seem to snap John back into his body, forcing Sherlock to pin his hips before he suffocates. Death by cock doesn’t sound like such a horrible way to go. Sherlock wraps his arm around John and flips them suddenly so that John kneels above him.

He adds a second finger and pulls John’s hips lightly to indicate his desire. John’s eyes go wide, and he hesitates. That won’t do at all. Sherlock growls and pulls rougher, demanding this time. With a calculated slide of his finger, Sherlock finds John’s prostate and the man loses control. He thrusts wantonly into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock can feel a wet patch spreading along his pants as his cock weeps openly at the display above him. He thrusts futilely against the air. John’s hands are tangled in Sherlock’s curls, holding him firmly but gently in place. The roll of his hips is so hypnotic that Sherlock almost forgets to stop as John teeters on the brink of release.

Reluctantly he stills John, who whimpers at the loss of contact. He draws himself out of Sherlock’s mouth and straddles Sherlock’s chest. His mussy hair and mottled flush make him the picture of debauchery. Sherlock is struck dumb at the simple of beauty of John Watson.

Impatient and embarrassingly hard, John looks like a child being offered sweets just beyond his reach. When Sherlock does not respond immediately, John grins wickedly and scoots back to writhe against Sherlock. The stimulation is shocking for Sherlock’s ignored member, and it’s enough to reawaken the need.

With a moan so deep it would more properly be called a roar, he launches himself at the soldier, rolls them over, and cradles John’s skull in a single, fluid move. He lubes himself quickly, and watching John closely for signs of pain, he thrusts into John’s warm, tight heat.

Sherlock’s eyes roll and he struggles to maintain the slow, steady push into John. Once he is full sheathed inside, he tangles his fingers with John’s and leans close to murmur,

“Ready?”

John nods with his eyes fixed on the Adonis above him. Sherlock’s eyes gleam as he rotates his hips.

“I want to ruin you.”

He whispers. John claws at Sherlock’s back in response. Needing no further encouragement, Sherlock pulls back and thrusts powerfully forward, driving John into the pillows. He had found the proper angle while circling his hips earlier so that now he drives into John with devastating accuracy, hitting his prostate with each thrust.

John leans up to seal their lips together, which causes Sherlock’s abdomen to rub against John’s cock. Sherlock groans at the slick slide of John against him and around him. He latches onto a nipple to stifle his moaning.

John is close. His body is taut and a constant flow of uh-uh-uh falls from his lips between kisses. Sherlock clutches him closer and works to make each thrust harder, better, faster. Just as John starts to tremble his release, Sherlock stops.

He circles his hips slowly but shallowly, nothing like what John needs to push him over the edge. John sobs and pleads, but Sherlock teases until John is no longer in danger of coming.

Sherlock loves fucking. Loves being fucked just as much as he loves fucking John. He eases back into John and starts again. This time, he makes love with his entire body. Long, languid strokes that melt John into the mattress. He body undulates and he raises a hand to cup John’s cheek. Sweat drips between their bodies, and Sherlock’s face is a study in adoration.

He takes John’s cock in his hand and strokes along with his thrusts. Steadily they climb toward their peak. Sherlock speeds up as John’s body starts to tighten again. He looks into the soldier’s eyes and twists his palm along the head of his cock.

“I love you, John.”

The admission is breathy from Sherlock’s exertions. John’s response is strangled by a choked gasp as Sherlock returns to the hard, fast, hot fucking of earlier. They are both so close now. Sherlock’s arms shake with the strain, but he just grips John harder.

“And you – are –mine.”

He grunts with each thrust. It’s all John needs to hear. He splinters apart and screams Sherlock’s name as his cock pulses his release hot and wet between their bodies. Sherlock thrust one, two, three more times and comes as he licks the semen from John’s chest.

He collapses on top of John, and they lay that way for several long minutes. Sherlock secretly thrills at the prospect of being fused together by drying come. He runs a finger along John’s hole and watches as come and lube leak out in a glorious liquidy stream.

John chuckles and kisses Sherlock’s throat.

“Maybe someday, love.”

Sherlock chuckles back and lays his head over John’s heart. He listens to the reassuring thump-thump and lets it reassure him that John is here, alive and whole and happy.

So very happy. They both are.

 


End file.
